


From Life

by MoreThanSlightly (cadignan)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Drawing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mother-Son Relationship, Mutual Pining, Relationship Advice, Sharing a Bed, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 04:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16319585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cadignan/pseuds/MoreThanSlightly
Summary: Keith teaches himself to draw, among other things.





	From Life

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is dedicated to every fanartist who's drawn cuddling or sexy sparring. You're all amazing and I love you.

Keith takes one of the hoverbikes and drives out to the desert by himself. He rides right up to the cliff edge, but when the precipice arrives, he cuts the engine. Gets down. Sits with the silence for a little while.

It takes some time to pull the pad out of his bag. He came all the way out here to be alone, so nobody would say anything about it, and now his own damn brain's full of commentary. It’s silly. It’s a waste of time. He’s not good at it.

Keith opens the pad and pulls out a little box of charcoal, both vine and compressed. Those thoughts can fuck off. He’s not good at it because he’s barely ever practiced. And yeah, maybe it’s silly, but he’s allowed. He can do something aimless and self-indulgent if he wants to.

And he does want to. He’s been dreaming about it for months, asleep and awake, ever since that stupid cosmic game show. Who knows why, but his hands itch to do this. He discreetly acquired a sketchpad and a few supplies without questioning it too much, and now he’s here. It feels like the right place to get started.

The stick of vine charcoal weighs almost nothing in his hand. He spreads his fingers along its length, not pinching too hard, puts the tip to the page and traces the line of the horizon. It’s free, both in the sense of costing him nothing and in the sense of being untethered from his obligations. They’ve been working to restore the Earth for weeks now, and before that it was battle after battle, mission after mission. He doesn’t have to save the universe every hour of every day.

The universe is still here, and right now, it’s doing just fine without him. He can live in it instead of defending it, watching the setting sun paint the desert in shades of red and orange and gold, then the shadows wash over the cliffs until everything is almost as grey as his drawing.

The image he’s rendered doesn’t capture the drama of the desert—maybe he should have framed things a little differently, so that massive rock formation on the left occupied more space on the page—but it’s not bad. When he takes his time and there are no asshole gameshow hosts pressuring him, Keith’s alright at this. It’s a good feeling, and he’s not going to stop there.

He brushes most of the charcoal dust off his hands and rides home.

 

*

 

He doesn’t tell anyone. Tucks the sketchpad away with scrupulous care and never leaves it lying out. But he keeps it up for months, these solitary trips to the desert, and eventually, he’s better than alright. He switches from landscape to still life. Does a few drawings of the hoverbike, and eventually, the Lions. (Gets a strange feeling they like it, which makes him blush.)

When briefings bore him, he doodles little cartoon portraits in the margins of his display. Shiro’s the easiest because he always sits so still and looks so serious, sometimes with a wrinkle between his brows. Allura’s next easiest for similar reasons. Keith draws Pidge biting her lip while she concentrates, Lance flinging his hands up in indignation, and Hunk holding his chin with thoughtful skepticism.

People are pretty fun subjects, as it turns out. He doesn’t always want to talk to them, but he likes drawing them. Keith looks up tutorials on anatomy and forges ahead. He catches Kolivan standing with Sam Holt, both of them deep in discussion, Kolivan’s arms crossed over his broad chest, and later recreates the moment on paper. He draws his mom in motion, stalking down the hallway, alert and deadly.

She’s the person he's least afraid to share this with. Keith wouldn’t mind if she caught him. He might even show her a sketch at some point. He draws her again later, one evening when they’re the only ones in the common room and she’s stretched out on the couch with a tablet held close to her face, smiling at whatever she’s reading.

He likes that, her tiny secret smile. Drawing presents him with a new way of looking at people. It makes him feel like he’s deciphered a code that has always eluded him. If you slow down and really watch, you catch things. The way people hold themselves. The expressions they make. The way they move.

Keith goes back through all his cartoon doodles from the briefings, dissatisfied. Shiro puts on that meeting face for everybody else. That’s not really him. Shiro looks most like himself, Keith decides, when they’re racing or sparring, and he’s just done something to surprise Keith. He smirks. There’s a spark of challenge in his eyes. It makes Shiro look young and daring and foolish—not at all like a stately and stoic superior officer.

Keith has thought a lot about that expression. He ought to be better at drawing it. His first few tries aren’t quite right.

He goes back to drawing Krolia again. She’s easy because when she’s at rest, she holds herself perfectly still. Also, he missed out on almost two decades of looking at her, and he’s trying to make up for lost time.

Eventually, long after Keith has made it obvious that he’s drawing her, she asks to see. She sits down on the couch next to him. He hands over the sketchbook without hesitation, but his pulse picks up. He didn’t think this through. What if she doesn’t like them? What if she laughs, or says he’s wasting his time, or—

“Keith,” Krolia says. She beams at his portrait of her, and then at him. “I had no idea you could do this.”

He shrugs, trying not to blush or blurt _you really like it?_ and says, “Me neither, until recently.”

She regards the drawing again, giving it her full attention. It’s just a quick sketch, showing only her head and shoulders, her eyes focused on something out of the frame. There’s a privacy to her expression; no one is invited to read her thoughts. Whatever she’s looking at, it’s only for her eyes. “It's wonderful. And very flattering.”

All the tension he's been holding in his body releases. Except— “You don't think it looks like you?”

“No, no, it absolutely does. But something can be a good likeness without being flattering.”

Right. Of course. He'd scribbled a little portrait of Haggar in that shared-dream game show, and it hadn’t been flattering at all. “I wasn’t trying to flatter you,” he says loyally. “I draw what I see.”

She throws an arm around his shoulders and kisses his temple. “What did I do to deserve you?”

“Dedicate your whole life to resisting the forces of evil,” he says, staring down at the portrait instead of her face, and she laughs.

“Well, that apple didn’t fall from either tree.”

It’s moments like these where he remembers how long Krolia lived on Earth. She looks more alien than Coran or Allura, but neither of them has mastered English idioms the way Krolia has. She made a home for herself here, once. Maybe she will again.

“It’s a great drawing, Keith. Thank you for showing it to me.”

“Thanks. Would've been nice if I'd been interested in this while we were stuck in the abyss or on our trip to Earth. It's a good way to pass the time.”

"Well, better late than never," she says. "Can I look through the rest of it, or is it private?"

"Sure," he says, still so relieved and pleased that she liked his drawing that he doesn't care.

His mom pages through the pad slowly, lavishing attention on every little detail, liberal with her praise. All this time, Keith had been bracing himself for criticism or dismissal, and it turns out he should've been preparing for compliments. He's a speechless mess by the time she finishes.

It's a nice feeling, but as with everything between him and his mother, it's not without its sting. He thinks about what it might have been like to grow up with her, to see his dumb high school homework projects inspire this kind of parental pride, and the idea is too foreign to conceive of. He pushes the thought away. They're here now. That's what matters.

"You've really captured everyone's expressions," she says. "No self-portraits?"

He shrugs. "Never occurred to me."

She flips back through the sketchbook eagerly, like something new might magically have appeared in the last five seconds. He watches her face go from a fond smile to an expression he's seen a lot but never understood. She presses her lips together and says nothing for a long moment.

Then, "Keith."

"Yeah?"

"There are a lot of drawings of Shiro in here."

"Yeah. He's hard to get right. He makes this one face, when we're racing or training and he manages to surprise me, and I just can't quite get it, even though I keep trying."

Her eyes light up. He's begun to recognize this particular delight, and privately, he thinks of it as _mom face_. It means Krolia's about to do something like make sure he's had enough to eat, or tell him to bring a jacket because it might get cold, or brush lint off his shoulder and straighten his collar. She loves that stuff. She probably thought she'd never get to do any of it.

Secretly, Keith loves it too.

The thing is, right now's not the time for any meals, and it's perfectly comfortable in this room, and there's no need to straighten his collar. So why does she look like that?

"Maybe what you're missing is context," she says. "Maybe his expression would make more sense if you draw what he's reacting to."

Huh. That's… not a bad suggestion. "I'll try it."

"You should," she says. "And you could show him, you know. Maybe it would help to draw from life."

He nods. He'd been worried, for a second there, that his mom was going to ask why he was still tormenting himself with his feelings for Shiro if he wasn't going to do anything about it. Then he would have had to explain how he already told Shiro he loved him, and Shiro hadn’t said anything back, and it's been more than a year now, and Keith has resigned himself to living this way.

But she didn't. He's grateful.

Krolia squeezes him around the shoulders, leans over, then presses her face into his hair and just… stays there for a second. Is she smelling his shampoo or something? It's weird, but also kind of sweet. Maybe it's how Galra show affection. She withdraws and then murmurs, "Used to do that when you were a baby."

"Oh." They make his heart ache, these reminders of their former life together. He saw a few things in the quantum abyss, but Krolia remembers. Does she think about it all the time, the life they almost had? Keith tries not to. He's thankful for what they have. He never expected to know her, let alone to love her, and every time he thinks about how lucky he is, his throat closes up. Everything hangs together with the finest of threads. Sure, there's a timeline where Krolia never leaves him, but if that's true, then there's just as many where he never finds the Blue Lion, never leaves Earth, never joins the Blade, never goes on that one crucial mission. He wouldn't trade this timeline for any other. Some people never get to meet their moms. He used to be one of them.

"We missed so much with each other," she says. "I'm so glad you're here now it's all I can do to keep from saying 'I love you' in every sentence. I know you know, but I can't help myself. Life is so uncertain. Once isn't enough. I have to keep telling you."

"I love you too, Mom."

"I love you, Keith. Good night."

 

*

 

After she leaves, he goes back to his room and gets in bed, but he can't sleep. His mind flits from image to image, restless, so finally he just gets up to draw. He's never done his own portrait, so it takes a little practice to settle on how wild his hair should be, how defiant the slash of his mouth. He adds a caricature of himself to one of the pages of meeting doodles. He's scowling, his brows lowered and his mouth a flat line. It's amusing, but it's not really what he got out of bed to draw.

Shiro's about a head taller than him, and far broader. For comparison, he draws them facing off in fight stances, their fists ready.

Keith gives himself the first move—a roundhouse kick, which his sketch of Shiro dodges. It's funny to think about fighting like this, ten-thousand times slower than the real thing, broken into its smallest components. The angle of a foot here, the bend of a knee there. In the next image, cartoon Shiro lands a hit on cartoon Keith. He uses his non-dominant hand. Shiro's basically ambidextrous and it still comes a surprise to almost everyone, including Keith's sketch of himself. Keith tracks his pencil over the page, outlining the corded muscles of Shiro's arm.

The fight's not over. Keith responds with a flying kick that knocks Shiro flat. Keith pins Shiro to the mat, triumphant. This drawing's bigger than the others because it's the last one of the series, and Keith spends some time working out the anatomy of it, their poses, his own size relative to Shiro's. Are Shiro's thighs really that thick? Keith reflects on all the sparring sessions where he's accomplished this move in reality, remembers the feel of Shiro's body trapped beneath his, and decides that they are.

Once he's sure of their poses, he turns his attention to their expressions. His cartoon self is smiling down at Shiro, but then Shiro makes that face—the one Keith's been trying so hard to get right, that pleased little smirk. He's telegraphing his next move, but cartoon Keith is too busy celebrating. He misses it.

Hmm. This can't be the last drawing of the series, not now that he finally captured that expression. What’s Shiro planning? What’s got him looking like that? Keith turns the page and does one more, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his pencil flying.

Shiro grabs him by the shoulders and yanks him down into a kiss.

Cartoon Keith goes wide-eyed, his eyebrows disappearing beneath his bangs.

In reality, Keith doesn't look much different as he drops his pencil. His face is hot and he can't help glancing around his empty room, making sure no one caught him putting this fantasy down on paper. He's alone, of course. It's the middle of the night and he's been sitting here for hours, bent over in the little pool of light from his desk lamp, his cock full and straining against his boxers.

Keith considers his work again. It's appealing, the idea that Shiro would pull him into a kiss like that, but it doesn't feel real. Not like the previous drawing, the one where he's straddling Shiro. Why is that? Keith exhales. He thinks it through, pretending for a moment that the premise is sound. Shiro wants to kiss him; he wants to kiss Shiro. But as much as he wants to, he can't see Shiro yanking him down like that, not if it's their first time. Shiro worries too much—about all the darkness he's carrying around inside, about what he deserves, about what's right, and about Keith. All that stuff weighs him down. He wouldn't make the first move, not like that.

Keith's eyes linger on the way he's drawn Shiro's smile. Maybe Shiro's looking so smug because he wanted this. He's as happy to be under Keith as Keith is to be on top of him. Maybe he knows Keith can feel his hard-on, and that smile is an invitation for Keith to do something about it.

Pre-come blurts out the tip of his cock, warm and wet against his thigh. Yes. That's how he'll do it. Keith gives himself one good squeeze before he takes up the pencil and does a series of quick close-ups in little boxes: his hand stroking Shiro's face, his cartoon self leaning in until his hair brushes Shiro's forehead, Shiro closing his eyes when Keith's nose bumps his, and then finally, the kiss.

He's too distracted to draw anything else, and he has to trade his pencil for another tool. He shoves a hand into his underwear and hisses out a breath when he finally touches himself, his poor cock aching for release.

Keith might not be drawing the rest, but he's still thinking about it. He knows exactly how it would go. They'd keep kissing. He'd run his fingers through Shiro's hair, cup the back of his head to draw him closer, and Shiro would come willingly, parting his lips for Keith's tongue. He'd buck his hips up and Keith would grind down against him until they were both frantic. Then they'd shove their pants down, desperate for skin-on-skin contact. Keith would take both their cocks in his hand, crushing them together, and Shiro would thrust helplessly against him, the head of his cock catching against Keith's. Keith would stroke them both until they were panting, his hand slick and hot, and then he'd kiss Shiro again and they'd both come.

The thought of Shiro spurting against his hand and his cock undoes him. Keith squeezes his eyes shut and comes all over himself.

 

*

 

Keith has some practice with this: jerking off to thoughts of Shiro, then interacting with him the next day as if nothing has happened. But now he's no good at it. Those drawings are still in his sketchbook, hard evidence of his thought crimes. Shiro's going to look at him and know, somehow, exactly what he's been up to.

It takes two days of Keith being even grouchier and more taciturn than normal before Shiro finds him prepping one of the hoverbikes to ride out to the desert. "Mind if I tag along?"

Shit. The sketchbook is in Keith's bag, so obvious he feels like it might as well be framed with blinking neon lights. But Shiro will be hurt if he says no, and besides, he doesn't want to. It's been a long time since they've both been free to take a ride and watch the sunset.

"Sure," Keith says, and if his shrug looks more like a flinch, Shiro doesn't comment. He shouldn't have indulged his urge. He'd almost made peace with the way things were. He was always going to love Shiro in ways that Shiro didn't love him, and that was okay, because friendship with Shiro was the best thing in his life. He'd been so close to accepting that, and then his dumb drawings had gone and fucked it up.

He takes a deep breath through his nose and watches the desert fly by. Watches Shiro grin and speed ahead of him, following the same route they've raced a hundred times, down into the painted cliffs. Keith accelerates until he can't think about anything else.

The sun hangs low in the sky by the time they reach the endpoint of the course. They cut their engines and dismount, absorbing the scene in companionable silence. Shiro's the best person to talk to, and part of it's because he never makes Keith talk. It's nice. Keith only says what he wants to say.

Silence clarifies everything, and with the sun sinking and the light fading, Keith works out what, exactly, he wants to say. He reaches for his bag. He can do this. "I've been trying to develop some non-violent hobbies. Or just one, really."

He opens the sketchbook to a landscape in charcoal. He drew it in this spot, so it feels like the right one to show Shiro.

"Wow, Keith, this is really great. Is this what you've been doing all this time when you go off by yourself?"

"Mostly," Keith says, which is true. Mostly, when he's by himself, he draws. Occasionally he thinks desperate thoughts about kissing Shiro and then has to jerk off. That's his business and nobody else's.

Shiro studies the drawing for a long time. Well, he's always talking about patience, so that makes sense. Except the way he's smiling at it and simultaneously searching it for clues makes Keith's pulse pick up. It's not like Keith's drawing holds any secrets. What exactly is Shiro looking for?

"So you've been drawing the desert? Or other things too?"

"Other things," Keith says. He shows Shiro the drawings of the Lions, which he's proud of because they're linear and very precise. Then he flips to a page of caricatures of all their friends and colleagues—not _that_ page—and passes the pad to Shiro.

"These are great. You really do make that face in meetings." Shiro smiles fondly at the cartoon of Keith glowering. He's always had a high tolerance for Keith's bad attitude. "You've really captured everyone's personality."

Except for Shiro himself, since on that page he's wearing his serious leader face. "Well, in meetings, anyway." Keith flips to his most recent drawing of Krolia, which isn't cartoon line art, but a more realistic, shaded style. "I've been messing around with some different styles."

"Wow, I've never seen your mom look so… soft."

People always say such surprising things about his drawings. Always, ha. Like he's shown so many people. "What do you mean?"

"She normally looks really fierce. I think she only looks at you that way." A realization crosses Shiro's expression. "Actually, it's kind of like how you…”

"How I what?" Keith prompts, not sure he wants to know the answer.

"How you look at everybody," Shiro says, his eyes trained on the page, the back of his neck flushed dull red. That's enough context for Keith to guess that the rest of the sentence is _except me_. They both know who's on the very short list of people he's vulnerable in front of. Shiro's attempt to spare Keith's feelings by not finishing his sentence is borderline hilarious, except the other side of the border is misery. "Uh, I mean, not that you—anyway, I see a resemblance, that's all. These are really great, Keith. Are there more portraits like this?"

"Not yet. I haven't shown anyone except you and Krolia. To draw from life like I did for that, I'd need someone to sit still for me. So first I'd have to be willing to tell them, and then we'd have to find the time."

"Well, you've already told me," Shiro points out. "And we're out here doing nothing."

"My night vision's good, but not that good." Keith laughs. The sun has sunk beneath the horizon. They'll be riding home in the dark. "But sure, yeah, I'll draw you sometime."

"We can do it now. Let's go back and we can set up."

"You're excited about this." Shiro's enthusiasm is flattering, but Keith is taken aback. And what if Keith spends the whole time thinking about the most recent drawing he made of Shiro? It could be awkward. It could be dangerous.

He still wants to.

"Of course I'm excited about it. You've been off by yourself a lot lately. I've missed you."

Shiro's earnestness never fails to wreck Keith. How does he do that? Just… say his feelings out loud? Does he know what it does to Keith's insides?

Calm down. Shiro's just a really good friend. Friends miss each other sometimes, and if they're open and honest with each other, they talk about it. That's all it is.

Shiro continues, "And I know you like your solitude, and you didn't have to share this with me, so I'm honored you did. And now I have an opportunity to participate. It sounds fun."

"It's, uh, really just you sitting still and doing nothing while I stare at you."

"I'll bring some paperwork," Shiro says, and Keith is sure nobody else has ever sounded as cheerful about that.

"Okay," Keith says. "And you're right that I do like being alone, but… being with you is almost like being alone."

Wait. Shit. That didn't come out the way he meant it.

"I mean, uh, not that I don't notice you and care about you but—"

"You're comfortable with me," Shiro says, understanding right away.

Hearing Shiro say it out loud makes Keith profoundly uncomfortable, which is some kind of irony. It feels incriminating. He hates hiding things from Shiro, but there's no easy way to say "I know we're just friends, but I masturbated while thinking about you last night." So Keith says, "Yeah."

They ride back to the Garrison and set up in Keith's room. Shiro shows up without the jacket he'd worn on their ride, wearing a black t-shirt that bares his arms. It's pinned up to expose the tech embedded in his right shoulder. His left sleeve fits tightly. Actually, the whole thing fits tightly.

Shiro sits at Keith's desk and does paperwork, and Keith refuses to think further about that t-shirt, or about anything else that's happened in that chair. He pulls a second chair into position so he can draw Shiro in profile, lit by the little desk lamp, dutifully writing whatever report he brought with him. He doesn't look any less serious than he does in the meetings, but his expression is softer, somehow. Less guarded. This is how Shiro looks when he doesn't feel like the world's watching him.

He also keeps pausing to push his bangs out of his eyes, which is adorable. Keith itches to do a little cartoon of that, but he's in the middle of another project, and Shiro's already moving enough to make drawing his portrait something of a challenge.

"Hey, can you… tilt your head back the way you had it?" Keith glances between his drawing and Shiro's pose. "I think you moved."

"This way?"

"No, the other way."

Shiro huffs out a laugh. "Why don't you come over here and put me where you want me?"

"Okay," Keith says, carefully blanking his mind and not thinking of any other possible contexts for that sentence. Shiro asked him to do this because he thinks it's neutral, not something that's going to light Keith up with the ache of longing. Keith gives his drawing a last look, measuring Shiro's pose relative to the desk and the lamp, thinking about the angles.

He walks over to Shiro and lays a hand between his shoulder blades, only a thin layer of fabric separating his skin from Shiro's. His brain is loudly, desperately trying to compute which touches are strictly necessary for this project and whether he's getting an inappropriate amount of pleasure out of the warm solidity of Shiro's back and would it be crossing a line to put his hand in Shiro's hair because it looks so soft and can he really touch Shiro's face because he hasn't done that since Shiro was strapped to that table in the Garrison when all of this started and—Keith forces himself to take a silent breath. His ridiculous brain can fuck right off. Come on. He's never felt this nervous about flying into enemy territory. It's just Shiro.

He keeps his hand on Shiro's back, holding him in position, and stands next to him for a moment to observe his profile. God, he has a jaw like a statue of some mythological hero. Keith takes a firm but gentle grip on his chin and tilts his head to the side, then moves his hand to the top of Shiro's head—his hair _is_ soft—and pushes him down ever so slightly, so it looks like he's focused on the report. Shiro says nothing, just lets Keith adjust him like a doll.

"Thanks, you're good now," Keith says, going back to his chair and his sketchpad. He immerses himself in drawing because otherwise he'll think about touching Shiro and if he indulges that urge, he'll embarrass both of them. So Keith thinks about how to draw the way Shiro's t-shirt fits across his shoulders, and the light on his white hair, and the soft, pensive shape of his mouth.

Eventually, Shiro yawns. "Do you mind if I stretch?"

Keith is startled out of his reverie. "Oh, yeah, of course. I guess it's late. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I made it almost all the way through this report."

Keith is observing the length and circumference of Shiro's bicep as he raises his arm over his head because he's a student of anatomy now and he needs to know these things. For art. The way Shiro's t-shirt pulls across his chest while he stretches? Also art. The exposed skin of his stomach, the jut of his hipbones, the drape of fabric over his thigh muscles… all art.

Oh. Shiro said something to him about the report. "That's good. I think I'm pretty much finished, if you want to see."

"Of course I want to see," Shiro says, almost offended. "I want to see anything you're willing to show me."

He comes to stand behind Keith and look down at the pad in his lap. It's not really a finished piece, but it's a nice little study, and it was good practice to draw a live model. It's a reasonable likeness, if Keith says so himself, and the black of Shiro's t-shirt is a nice contrast with the white of his hair.

"Wow," Shiro says.

He's always so genuine all the time. And he's so fundamentally kind and compassionate. Nothing is a transaction with Shiro. He just gives. And he wouldn't say something he didn't mean. His praise always warms Keith from the inside.

"I think you gave me a little upgrade," he jokes. "I'm pretty sure I look way older and more beat-up than that in real life."

Now it's Keith who's offended. "No you don't. If anything, the drawing's not handsome enough."

Shiro laughs, taking it as a joke, and Keith manages to smile through his blush. He'd meant to keep that sentence in his mouth. Shiro claps him on the shoulder and says, "Thanks for this, Keith. I know we didn't talk much, and I was working, but I always like spending time with you. And I'm really honored you wanted to draw me. It's impressive how much you've taught yourself."

There Shiro goes again, full of sincerity and validation and devastatingly generous with both. One of these days, Keith is going to learn how to take a compliment, but today he stares at the floor and mumbles, "Thanks. Sorry for keeping you here so late."

"I would've been up anyway. I don't mind. Next time we can set a timer and I'll take breaks to stretch."

Next time? Keith turns toward Shiro, surprised, but there's no indication that it's a joke. He means it. He always means it. "That's a good idea. I'd love to draw you again."

"Sure, of course," Shiro says, and then pauses. His hand is still on Keith's shoulder, and he shifts it a little, rubbing back and forth. "You know, I was invisible for a long time. It's nice to feel seen."

Keith nods, hiding his surprise. He'd been thinking of this as a favor Shiro was doing for him. It hadn't occurred to him that Shiro was getting anything out of it. But it makes sense. Shiro was invisible for a long time. Alone for a long time. He'd brought that up, too, at least twice: when he'd said _I've missed you_ and _I know you like your solitude_ earlier, and just now when he'd said _I like spending time with you_. Keith feels these observations keenly, their sharp edges outlining what Shiro hasn't said. Keith hasn't been a very good friend lately. He's been consumed with feelings that don't fit into the confines of their friendship.

He can do better. For Shiro. It feels impossible, keeping up the closeness of their friendship while disentangling it from his desires, but Keith can do anything for Shiro. He reaches across his body to put his own hand over top of Shiro's. "I see you."

A little whisper in his brain says he should page through the rest of the sketchbook and show Shiro exactly how many times Keith has seen him. But it's late, and Keith would rather pilot a single Galra fighter through a full-on battle than fuck this up, so instead he squeezes Shiro's hand and lets him go back to his room.

 

*

 

"I know we were supposed to have a session," Shiro says, taking up Keith's whole doorway, leaning into the doorjamb like it's the only thing keeping him upright. "But today's training left me beat. Can we reschedule? I'm so sorry."

"Why don't you lie down?" Keith says. He gestures at his bed without thinking. He's unwilling to give up their scheduled time together, even though he's just as tired as Shiro. They'd sparred as Voltron and Atlas. It takes almost as much energy to hold back in a fight, doing no real damage, as it does to charge ahead in pursuit of victory or death. Practicing maneuvers as Voltron and Atlas lacks the intimacy of one-on-one sparring, but it still lights up Keith's brain with an undercurrent of _don't hurt Shiro_ , so it's the worst of all possible worlds.

Shiro raises his eyebrows.

"I don't have to draw your face," Keith explains. "I've been meaning to do some figure studies anyway. You don't have to be awake. Take a nap."

"Oh, uh… okay." Shiro's mouth draws to the side in a frown. "What if I move while I'm sleeping?"

Unlikely. Shiro, when he finally gets to sleep, keeps statue-still. Keith doesn't want to say so. "I'll work fast and just make sketches. They won't be as finished as what I drew the other night."

"Okay. I guess you can move me, if you need to. I don't mind."

Shiro in his bed. Shiro in his bed submitting to whatever pose Keith wants him in. The bad ideas are stacking up one by one.

Shiro takes his shoes off, folds his jacket and hangs it over the back of Keith's chair, then unselfconsciously strips down to his underwear and crawls into Keith's bed.

Holy shit.

He did that without being asked, Keith reminds himself. I didn't ask him to get naked. He just did it.

What would happen if he did ask? Would Shiro just shrug and slip out of his underwear too? Keith busies himself selecting a pencil. He shouldn't be allowed that kind of power. It'll go to his head. Or other places.

"Just… lie however you want to," Keith says. "On your side or however you'd normally sleep."

Shiro gets into Keith's bed without remarking on this little white lie, which is best for both of them. Keith knows exactly how Shiro sleeps. They'd spent months traveling together in the Black Lion. Even if quarters hadn't been cramped, Keith's need to reassure himself Shiro was alive and breathing would have driven him out of bed to hover over Shiro in the darkness. He's sure Shiro surfaced from sleep at least one of those times. He's a light sleeper; they both are.

Shiro does, in fact, sleep on his side. He turns so his back is facing Keith. This body hasn't racked up the same number of scars as his original one, but there are still a few criss-crossing the broad expanse of muscle. Keith wants to reach out and run his hand over all that naked skin, but he'll have to settle for drawing it.

Shiro is stretched out, his long legs bent slightly so he can fit into the bed. It makes for a better composition than the way Keith likes to sleep, curled tight, wrapped around his own body like armor. That's his preferred way to give up on consciousness, that pose and the nest he makes of his bedding, plus the profound physical weariness of fighting all day long.

Keith notices with a twinge of embarrassment that his sheets are still in that nest, since he'd fallen out of the habit of making his bed after dropping out of the Garrison. Shiro crawled in anyway. He must be really tired. Shiro dutifully makes his own bed every day, even when that bed is just a cot inside the Black Lion.

Well, the folds in the sheets will make a more interesting drawing, at least. Keith blocks in a long, horizontal composition: Shiro's back, the length of the wrinkled bed beneath him, the upward curve of his hip. He loses himself in the lines and subtle variations of light and shadow. It's only when a yawn overtakes him and he twists his neck that he realizes how much time has passed. It's long past bedtime. Shiro, as predicted, hasn't moved.

Huh. This poses a new problem. That's Keith's bed. If he wants to get in it, he's going to have to wake Shiro.

"Shiro."

Nothing. Damn. Every little twitch and creak had startled him awake when they'd been in the Black Lion. Keith puts his drawing aside and steps closer to the bed. He says Shiro's name again to no effect. He extends his arm—not breathing, not sure if he's willing Shiro to wake up or to stay asleep—and lays his hand on the warm skin of Shiro's shoulder. It feels good. Keith swallows.

Shiro's in profile beneath him, half his face pressed in Keith's pillow. His eyes are closed, his face slack in sleep. It's a sweet image, one Keith wouldn't mind drawing if he weren't preoccupied. It seems a shame to wake him, especially knowing how poorly he usually sleeps.

Keith squeezes Shiro's shoulder, and Shiro drags his eyes open then lets them close again. "Mmph."

"Sorry to wake you," Keith says, not sure why he's whispering, and also not sure if he _has_ woken Shiro, whose eyes are firmly closed. Does Keith really have the heart to make Shiro trudge back to his own room in the middle of the night? He already knows he won't be able to do that. The real question is whether Keith's sleeping on the floor.

He could. He's slept in worse places, on Blade missions. His time in the Blade had taught him the skill of falling asleep and catching a short nap almost anywhere. Keith can shut himself off like a machine. He can restart himself like one, too. When he's out, he's a nightmare-riddled mess just like Shiro, but falling asleep doesn't trouble him.

It troubles Shiro.

But Shiro's doing fine in Keith's bed. He was fine with Keith staring at him while he slept. Maybe he'd be fine with Keith sleeping next to him. It's not like Keith is going to do anything. He'll be unconscious.

"Shiro. Do you mind if I get in?"

Shiro makes a sound that doesn't immediately qualify him as a sentient, conscious being. When Keith withdraws his hand from Shiro's shoulder, hesitating, Shiro moves over a few inches, leaving a space for Keith behind him.

It's an invitation.

Keith sheds his clothes quickly, before Shiro rolls over in his sleep and cancels the invite, and then he slips into bed in his underwear. His bed feels a lot smaller with Shiro in it, and Shiro hasn't left him enough space to curl up the way he likes. Not unless he curls himself around Shiro, instead of just into a ball like usual.

Don't give in to that temptation, Keith tells himself firmly, and meanwhile his treacherous body is already fitting his legs into the bend in Shiro's, draping his arm over Shiro's waist, and pressing his face against Shiro's shoulder. At the contact, Shiro exhales a low sigh of contentment and Keith feels it in his entire body. His heart curls and his toes beat, or some variation on that. Fuck. He could happily fall asleep to that sound and sensation every night for the rest of his life.

No. Stop it. You told him you loved him and he didn't say it back.

He did say a lot of stuff about how much he liked spending time with you, and how he missed you, and then sleepily invite you to bed, though. What does that mean?

Every time Keith tries to untangle it—is Shiro just a very earnest and physically affectionate friend or is all his behavior some kind of code?—Shiro shifts against him in his sleep, heavy and warm, smelling like soap and sweat, his breath soft and peaceful. That effectively blanks Keith's brain and resets all his calculations, and eventually he gives up trying to work it all out and just closes his eyes to enjoy being in bed with Shiro.

His last thought before he falls asleep is of his mom saying _once isn't enough, I have to keep telling you_.

 

*

 

Keith wakes up first. He lies in bed listening to Shiro breathing, unwilling to move in case he never gets to experience this again. They must look funny from an outside perspective. He imagines the scene from the side, the way he drew Shiro last night. That drawing wouldn't show much. He prefers a bird's eye view: the two of them surrounded by the sheets, Shiro so huge and powerful but simultaneously so soft in sleep, with Keith plastered against his back, determined to be the big spoon even though he's smaller, holding onto Shiro with all the ferocity he possesses.

He'll draw it. Just for himself. Just in case this is the only time. He's pretty good at anatomy by now. And if some of the male torso studies in his sketchbook are minus one right arm and plus a familiar collection of scars, well, that's his business.

He's made a lot of progress since that first drawing of the desert. He kept it. In retrospect, it's mediocre. The composition is dull and back then he hadn't understood much about value, so the whole thing is kind of a uniform grey. That's okay, though. He had to start somewhere. One drawing wasn't enough.

Maybe confessing your feelings is like that. Maybe Keith needs to try again.

Maybe Shiro's been trying, too.

He won't wake Shiro. Not yet. There's enough light coming through the window that he can work. He slides up carefully and grabs his sketchbook from the chair next to the bed. Keith sits back against the headboard, sketchbook propped against his knees, and blocks out the composition he just imagined. He can't look at himself, but at least Shiro's still in position. Keith goes over his form in more detail, smudging a little charcoal dust into the paper to capture how the pillow rumples under his face. He picks up an eraser and drags one point of it in two tiny arcs to get Shiro's brows right.

The drawing develops in funny stages, Shiro's portrait in great detail and modeling next to Keith's self-portrait, which is a scribble suggesting the wild nest of his hair and the zigzag of his body next to Shiro's. Keith will work on that part later, when he has access to a mirror. Shiro's here now and he has to seize the opportunity.

"Hey."

Shiro's eyes are open, but he hasn't moved. Keith's hand goes still. From that angle, Shiro probably can't see what Keith is drawing. He can definitely tell they're in bed together, though.

Come on, he tells himself. You got in bed with him. You chose to draw this. Don't back down now.

"Hey," Keith says. He doesn't intend to smile, but he feels it happen anyway. Shiro. In his bed. He never thought they'd do this, and even if this came about by accident, Shiro's awake now and he hasn't made any moves to put space between them. Their bodies are still very firmly in contact, Keith's hip to Shiro's back.

"Guess I fell asleep in your bed. Sorry."

Keith stops smiling. "Don't be sorry."

Shiro twists around and sits up. He stretches his arm overhead and rolls his shoulders. Keith knows stalling when he sees it, so he decides to keep quiet and let Shiro take his time. He feels very gallant about it. Chivalrous.

"You should have kicked me out," Shiro says.

"You were sleeping so well." Keith's brain produced the term _dead asleep_ , but he refused to say it out loud. Shiro is not dead. Shiro is alive and right here and until just a second ago, he was touching Keith. "Besides, I don't mind if you don't."

Shiro blinks, settling back against the headboard. Then he's finally in position to see Keith's drawing, and his eyes go wide. "Is that… us?"

Keith might be insulted if Shiro weren't so obviously speechless. One of the figures in the drawing is clearly Shiro. The other's a bit rougher around the edges, but that in itself should be identification enough. Keith raises his eyebrows and leans back, ostentatiously giving Shiro a better view of the image.

Shiro swallows. He has the world's most darling and unexpected blush, a wash of pink from his ears to his cheeks to the back of his neck, and Keith wishes he were working with color. "Oh, that's… it's really good, Keith."

Hmm. Shiro didn't recoil, and that blush is promising. But the picture's no substitute for three words, let alone a thousand. "I love you. You know that, right, Shiro?"

"You're my brother." Shiro pauses. "That's what you said."

"You remember that?"

Shiro nods. Then he reaches toward Keith's face and strokes the pad of his thumb down the scar. Neither of them is ever going to forget. Keith locks eyes with Shiro, watches him well up with tears, feels his own eyes grow misty. He'd been ready to die for Shiro. He still is. But he's ready to live, too, and he's wasted too much time not saying things he should have said long ago.

"You are my brother," Keith says. "And my best friend. But we're not _actually_ brothers. When I say I love you, I mean I have some feelings for you that aren't brotherly."

The downward sweep of Shiro's lashes might be demure, but he's not averting his gaze. He's checking out Keith's lap. Holy fuck, that's hot. Keith is ready to die for Shiro, which is good, because Shiro might just kill him.

Shiro licks his lips, then meets Keith's eyes again and says, "Like what?"

Keith dumps his sketchpad on the chair, grabs Shiro's face, and kisses him. He holds nothing back, because he wants this like he's never wanted anything, and because Shiro practically dared him to. What kind of feelings does he have for Shiro? The kind where he sweeps his tongue deep into Shiro's mouth and shivers at the way Shiro parts his lips and tips his head back for more. Nothing about his feelings is mild or gentle or slow, and neither is their kissing. Keith's feelings are a force of nature, a crashing torrent of want. He yanks off his own underwear and then Shiro's, clambers on top and kisses like he can pour himself down Shiro's throat. Shiro drinks him in, gasping between kisses, bucking his hips up while Keith grinds down.

His cock pulses, dripping, and when he works his hand between their bodies, Shiro's belly is slick from both of them. Keith smears his palm through it, enjoying Shiro's warm smooth skin and the rasp of his hair, thrilling at the way Shiro shudders beneath him. He wraps his fingers around both of them, Shiro's cock hot and thick against his palm, and strokes up and down with decisive movements. Shiro groans, says his name breathlessly, and Keith says "Shiro," and that's all it takes. Shiro makes a soft sound and paints Keith's belly and chest white. Keith's orgasm streaks out of him at the same moment, pleasure blotting out everything.

Afterward, Keith trembles and collapses on top of Shiro, sticky and warm and panting. He buries his face in the side of Shiro's neck and Shiro strokes warm fingertips down the curve of his spine, making him shiver.

"Like _that_ ," Keith says, smug, smirking into the side of Shiro's neck. Shiro's answering laughter is quiet, but it rumbles through Keith's chest. He's languid and boneless and happy.

"I guess I have some feelings like that, too," Shiro says, amused. He kisses the top of Keith's head. "I love you."

Keith has never been much for staying in bed, but he's never had Shiro's heartbeat to listen to. It's as steady and comforting as the rest of Shiro, and Keith could lie on top of him forever. He expects Shiro to suggest that they shower and go out into the world, since there's work to be done, but the suggestion never comes. The world can do without them, at least for this morning.

Eventually, Shiro says, "Can I look at your drawing again?"

Touched, Keith hides his smile against Shiro's skin. "Yeah."

Shiro wraps his arm around Keith and sits both of them up, then grabs for the sketchbook.

"Also you should know," Keith says without moving from his very comfortable position cradled against Shiro. "There are other drawings of you in there."

"So I can flip through it?"

"Yeah."

Keith doesn't hear any pages turn, which means Shiro's still studying the drawing of the two of them cuddling. Some time when he's not draped over Shiro, he'll finish it. He owes that drawing at least that much.

"You draw yourself so… sharp. Raw."

Keith makes a non-committal sound. The drawing's not finished, but that's an accurate assessment of how he was feeling before he… expressed himself.

"I just want you to know you're much prettier than that," Shiro says.

Keith huffs with laughter.

"I know you can do yourself justice because you always draw me way better-looking than I actually am," Shiro continues.

"What can I say, I'm a fan."

Shiro laughs and turns a page. "Oh."

He's found the series of them sparring. Keith would be embarrassed, except they're both still naked, so he can feel Shiro get hard. That's hot. Shiro likes his drawings. Shiro _really_ likes his drawings.

"I love you, you know," Keith says.

"Yeah, you mentioned."

"Well, it didn't take the first time, so I figure I need to say it a few thousand more," Keith says. He drags his hips down, rubbing against Shiro. "Practice makes perfect and all."

"Mm, good point." Shiro puts the sketchbook down on the chair with great care. "I love you too. It's important to maintain a disciplined routine so we don't get soft."

Keith shakes with laughter. "That won't be a problem."

"Still." Shiro reaches down and takes a possessive grip of his ass. "You told me you were trying to develop some non-violent hobbies. I think this could be mine."

**Author's Note:**

> [[fic on tumblr](https://morethanslightly.tumblr.com/post/179127289392/from-life)]


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